Caught Out in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  She had said the man was big, but to a child of that age any man would probably seem so. And dark haired. Rose had seen a dark haired man take Beth from the beach.

  Jack sighed. ‘What exactly do you expect me to do? I can hardly knock on the door and ask these people if someone is abusing their daughter. What’s their name, anyway?’

  ‘They’re called Overton. The daughter’s name is Katy. I know the grandmother, Ann. She usually cuts my hair. I’ve met Susan and Simon, they’re the parents, but only once.’

  I should have guessed Rose would have to know one or other of the parties involved, he thought. ‘Do you believe Doreen, or is it just a case of her imagination working overtime?’

  ‘I believe her, Jack. She seems genuinely upset.’

  ‘Okay. If there’s any way in which I can make discreet enquiries I’ll do so. Now, I really must go.’ He handed her his mug which was still half full of coffee before he hurried out of the house.

  Daylight had arrived but the spectacular dawn had held a false promise. Clouds were beginning to bank up over the land and within minutes it started to rain. Apart from the fishing forecasts, no one bothered with what the meteorologists had to say. On the narrow peninsular, surrounded as it was by water, it was impossible to predict with any accuracy forthcoming weather. Sunshine could give way to rain in seconds or a storm could pass over abruptly leaving a clear blue sky.

  Rose went to the kitchen and checked the fridge. It was almost empty, some shopping needed to be done. While the kettle boiled for a second mug of coffee she peeled an orange and broke it into segments, enjoying the tangy smell of the rind. Juice ran over her fingers. She rinsed them at the sink then began to eat. The telephone interrupted her.

  It was Geoff Carter. For a moment Rose expected another invitation for dinner.

  ‘I’m at the gallery. The post is here and I thought you’d like to know that a cheque has arrived. They’ve finally sorted out the finances of your last exhibition and sent me the balance. Well, you know how it is, they keep the money for as long as possible before they deduct their exorbitant commission and pay the poor artists.’

  ‘I know that, Geoff. And you, as a gallery owner yourself, are no less to blame.’

  ‘Ah, how well you know me, Rose, dear. But if you want your money you’d better be nice to me.’

  ‘Naturally. But then I’m nice to everyone. I’ll come in this morning to collect my dues. Have the cheque ready, it’s going straight into the building society.’

  ‘The building society? You’re obviously making more money than you need to live on. Something’s definitely wrong with the world when an artist can do that. In the circumstances I think you should marry me.’

  ‘Then think on, Geoffrey Carter. You are definitely not husband material. Anyway, it’s only just gone eight. What on earth are you doing at the gallery so early?’

  ‘The usual. A touch of insomnia. In fact …’

  ‘In fact, what?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. It can wait. I’ll tell you about it over coffee. You’ll have time for one, won’t you, before you pop in to the Bristol & West?’

  ‘Yes. They’re open until twelve on Saturdays.’ Rose was intrigued. Geoff’s bantering tone had turned serious.

  By the time she had showered and dressed, made the bed and written out a shopping list, it was pouring with rain. The list was quite long. This year she was going to make a Christmas cake as she knew how much her father enjoyed it, although she had left it a little late. In previous years, when David was alive she had baked it in September then added brandy at regular intervals via holes made with a knitting needle; the result a delicious moistness.

  She pulled on her mac, picked up her car keys and went out into the rain. Water dripped from the guttering where dead leaves had gathered again. She would ask Trevor if he’d mind removing them. Instead of the sea she could smell the damp soil and vegetation and, as her legs brushed against them, the strong scent of the pelargonium leaves, which managed to survive the winters out of doors because of the mildness of the climate.

  Geoff Carter’s place first, she decided as she started the engine. That way her cheque would be safely in the building society by lunchtime. No longer with cause to, Rose still worried about money. David had left her well provided for and the mortgage had been paid up upon his death. There were his pensions and what she earned from her work, but two days’ interest was two days’ interest as far as Rose was concerned so why wait until Monday to pay in her money?

  Carol Harte slept very little on Friday night. Dreams turned into nightmares and when she woke for the second time her nightdress was damp with sweat. Life, she realised as she switched on the bedside lamp, had turned into one huge nightmare. One of her own making. She went downstairs to make tea knowing that she would not sleep again. Her reflection in the blackness of the kitchen window showed a pale faced, tired looking woman who could look so attractive when she was happy. When was that? When was the last time I was happy? she asked herself. She had expected to be the one to offer an ultimatum to Marcus, not to be on the receiving end of one. The tables had turned. She had lost control of the situation. She might well have lost everything. And as for her actions later last night, how could she have been so very stupid? I didn’t tell him anything, I didn’t tell him anything that mattered, she repeated, hoping that by doing so it would become the truth. But she suspected that Geoff Carter would not forget what she had told him.

  The kettle began to boil. She placed a teabag in a cup, poured on water and added milk. Beneath the fluorescent light strip the tea seemed to have a filmy surface. She tipped it down the sink and made coffee instead.

  Fifteen minutes later the sheets and duvet cover between which she had tossed in the night were churning around in the washing machine and clean linen was already on the bed.

  Perhaps later, at a more sociable time, she would go and see Sally again. It just might help her to get her thoughts in order. There would be no need to concentrate on the conversation, she knew exactly how it would go, for what else would they talk about but Beth? And maybe by talking about her Carol would find a solution to her own problems.

  Sally had only slept fitfully, not the sleep of exhaustion, which would have done her good. She had reached the stage of numbness when whatever news she received would have no impact. Lack of food wasn’t helping, either, but the thought of eating made her gag. Beth was dead. How soon would her body be recovered and someone came to break the news?

  First thing on Saturday morning, at her mother’s insistence, Sally went to have a bath, wash her hair and change out of the clothes she had worn for the past two days.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ Alice Jones had said. ‘And you don’t want to let Michael see you looking like that.’

  Her mother was right. It would be added fuel to his belief that she was not a fit mother if she was unwashed when he arrived.

  Alice had no idea how to console her daughter, how anyone could. All she knew was her own pain. How much greater must Sally’s be. She made a halfhearted effort to tidy up although, in the circumstances, it seemed such a futile thing to do. It was raining hard but unseasonably mild. She opened the windows wide and let the fresh air blow through the flat, ridding it of the stale smell of cigarettes and the mugginess of the fire which had been left on all the time because Sally felt chilled to the bone.

  Sally sat on the lid of the toilet while the water ran and steam filled the bathroom. What a shock it had been to see Michael last night. For one fleeting second she thought he had come to say that Beth was alive and well. But that couldn’t be so, not now. She had always believed Michael to be a decent, honourable man, his only fault his utter devotion to her, his continual pressing her to get married. She had wondered if his attempt to gain custody had been another way of trying to force her to stay with him. But now she knew the unspeakable truth.

  Sally had wanted a child more than she had wanted marriage, and despite what she had said
she did not want that daily journey from Looe to Plymouth where she had worked as a floor manager in a department store. Having Beth had put an end to that. Hot tears burnt her eyes. They ran down her face and fell into the bath water as she sat, head in her hands, elbows on the edge of the bath and sobbed until her throat ached and there were no more tears left to shed. The running water drowned the sounds. If I’d stayed with Michael this wouldn’t have happened, she thought. It’s my fault. Everything that’s happened is my fault.

  She peeled off the jeans, sweatshirt and underwear she had lived in for the past two days and threw them into the laundry basket. With trembling legs she stepped over the side of the bath and sank beneath the hot water. It lapped comfortingly around her body and soaked her short hair as she lay back. With her eyes closed she thought how sensitive and calm Michael had been last night.

  ‘I just want to help. I’ll do anything in the world if it means getting Beth back,’ he had said quietly. ‘I’ll find somewhere to stay. The job doesn’t matter. My boss will either understand or he won’t. I should have come sooner, I know that now, but the police advised me not to.’

  Alice and Sally were aware that the police would not have given him the address without asking Sally’s permission. He must have obtained it from Carol. Alice, who knew her older daughter far better than Carol would ever have guessed, wondered exactly what her motives had been. Time, no doubt, would tell.

  ‘If it’s all right, I’ll come back in the morning,’ Michael had said. ‘There must be something I can do.’

  Sally was grateful for those words but hated to admit that Michael’s presence was reassuring. She was glad he was returning today. The police were in touch with them at regular intervals, telephoning far too frequently, Sally thought, because each time the phone rang it raised her hopes and made her think she might have got it all wrong.

  As she was dressing she heard voices. One was that of her mother, the second was also female. Not Michael, then, so it had to be Carol.

  Jack logged on to the computer and checked all the known paedophiles in the area. There were remarkably few. However, no one could know what happened in the privacy of other people’s homes or how many children remained silent. But this, Jack thought, is not the case here. It was not a question of abuse by a member of the family. Mandy had been taken from the street by a stranger, subjected to sexual assault, although, thank God, not full penetration, and had then been dumped. She was adamant that she had never seen the man before even though her description of him was vague. That was to be expected. She must have been terrified as well as full of revulsion at what was happening to her

  Beth, too, had been snatched, apparently at random. In neither instance did the profile match anyone on their files, but nor did Jack have any idea whether the same person was responsible for both crimes.

  And now there was Rose’s concern about little Katy Overton. From what she had said it seemed if anything was going on it was down to one or other of the parents.

  ‘But what can I do about it?’ he asked himself aloud as he paced his office, his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘How can we possibly interfere without the slightest bit of evidence?’

  I’ve got it, he thought. He would send someone around to the local schools to talk to the children under the guise of crime prevention, offering sound advice such as never, ever getting into a stranger’s car. Child helpline numbers could be left and the children encouraged to talk to their teachers if they had any worries or problems.

  The constable, if picked carefully, could tactfully probe the teaching staff to see if they had any fears for any of their pupils or if any of them had developed behavioural problems. But he or she would have to probe very tactfully. There had been as many, if not more, cases of overzealous authoritarian individuals who had caused children to be taken from safe, loving homes than those abused ones who slipped through the system. Yes, he would do it. Surely one officer could be spared for a day. But it was Saturday, he could not put the plan into action until Monday. Jack left his office and went to find the uniformed colleague who would be able to recommend the right man or woman for the job.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Susan Overton enjoyed the comfort of the feel of her daughter’s small hand in her own as they walked towards the supermarket in Hayle. There were only a couple of items she needed because she always did the bulk of the shopping when Katy was at school. They were wrapped up against the rain but it had not been worth getting out the car for such a short journey and neither of them had been out of the house yet that day.

  To their left was the River Hayle, its surface dotted with small concentric circles as the rain hit the slowly ebbing water. Huddled along its banks were a variety of ducks.

  ‘Look,’ Katy said, ‘an egret.’

  Susan smiled. Katy had spoken with a touch of her old enthusiasm. ‘So it is.’ Once rare, there were now many to be seen in the area. The heron-like snow-white bird stood, shoulders hunched, in the reeds, its distinctive yellow feet hidden. There was nothing wrong with Katy’s memory. It was some months now since Susan had told her the name of the bird.

  They reached the shelter of the store, which, being a Saturday morning, was busy. The warmth from the overhead heating immediately inside the doorway was welcome. Susan picked up a basket and still holding Katy’s hand, began to search the shelves for the items she required.

  ‘Would you like some sweets?’ she asked when they reached the checkout queue. ‘Katy? Did you hear what I said?’

  Katy nodded as she looked down at her shoes. ‘Yes, please.’

  Why the hesitation, Susan wondered. Had the doctor been wrong? Maybe her daughter really was suffering from stomach ache but didn’t want to say. And recently she had only picked at her food. Having examined Katy thoroughly he could find nothing physically wrong. ‘You choose something, darling. It’s our turn to pay next.’

  Katy looked at the shelves where the sweets and chocolates were displayed temptingly at children’s eye level next to the tills. She wanted something that would last, that she could sit and enjoy throughout the whole of the video she was to be allowed to watch that afternoon. It was a rare treat. At the weekend they usually went out as a family but her father had some extra paperwork to catch up on that day. Tomorrow they were going to Paradise Park, which was no distance away. Katy loved the exotic birds with their raucous cries. And then it would be Monday, only she wouldn’t think about that yet.

  Susan noticed that Katy had chosen a packet of boiled sweets instead of her favourite chocolate, but said nothing. The doctor had suggested that she was going through a phase; maybe her tastes were changing accordingly.

  Later that afternoon, when Simon had finished his paperwork, he went to see if there was a chance of a cup of tea. Susan was not in the kitchen where she had been ironing, but was standing in the doorway of the lounge watching their daughter who was gazing raptly at the cartoon video on the television screen. The sweets were beside her on the settee.

  ‘She’s smiling,’ Susan whispered.

  ‘So I see.’ Simon took his wife’s hand and they went to the kitchen, leaving Katy to enjoy the rest of the video.

  It was the first time for weeks they had seen her enjoy anything. Perhaps whatever had been troubling her had been forgotten. ‘Shall I help you with the meal?’ Simon asked.

  ‘That’d be nice.’ Susan smiled and tried to put all thoughts of Simon’s brother out of her mind. How could she possibly accuse him of what she suspected? But it was the only alternative explanation she could think of.

  The gallery was open and brightly lit against the gloom of the morning, but also to attract customers in. Concealed spotlights picked out Geoff’s favourite pieces. Although he dealt predominantly with paintings in various media there were also a few ceramics and some bronze sculptures.

  Rose pushed open the door and walked into the comparative warmth of the building with its familiar smells: hessian, which lined the walls, coffee, which was always
on the go as Geoff believed in looking after his customers, and the French cigarettes which he smoked in the small kitchen at the back of the gallery.

  Geoff was seated behind the antique desk, which served as a counter, his legs crossed, as he leafed through an old exhibition brochure. The artist he had once encouraged had gone on to big things; not that Geoff particularly liked his present work. It smacked of Damien Hirst and Martin Creed; the Emperor’s New Clothes school of art, he, and others, called it cynically. How anyone could be awarded a large sum of money for turning a light switch on and off was beyond him.

  He looked up and grinned when the buzzer on the door sounded and he saw Rose standing there, her mac spotted with rain. Rose, he believed, would also make it despite her more traditional style of painting. ‘I was expecting you sooner,’ he said as he stood to greet her. ‘I thought you couldn’t wait to get your grubby little hands on the cheque.’

  ‘I can’t. Where is it?’

  He opened a desk drawer and took it out then waved it before her. ‘The ink’s hardly dry, my child. Here, take it, you’ve earned it, after all. Have you time for a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Geoff’s coffee was always excellent. He bought the beans and ground them himself

  Rose knew how much the cheque would be made out for but she examined it just the same as if to reassure herself that her work really was worth the four-figure sum written on it. All of her paintings had finally sold by the time the exhibition had come to a close. However, as Geoff had pointed out she had had to wait until it was finally over before she was paid a penny. Now she could certainly make it a good Christmas for her father.